


They Meet in a Tavern

by bitterjelly



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Arm Wrestling, Beards (Facial Hair), Bisexual Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Bisexual Male Character, Bisexuality, Blow Jobs, Chort Fiend, Consent, Enthusiastic Consent, Explicit Consent, Frottage, Healing Sex, Healing Spell, Lace Panties, Lube, M/M, Mages (Dragon Age), Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Coital Cuddling, Power Bottom Dorian Pavus, Side Quests, Small Penis, Smut, Spoilers, The Witcher 3: Wild Hunt, They Meet In A Tavern, Wrestling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-18
Updated: 2018-10-25
Packaged: 2019-08-03 18:51:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 6,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16331597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bitterjelly/pseuds/bitterjelly
Summary: Life on the road can be grimy and brutal. But there are still moments of of sweetness and pleasure. On the hunt for a vicious monster, Geralt falls again for the mysterious, magical type.





	1. The Tavern

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt begins a new contract at the Screaming Possum Inn.

The tavern was a small place, little more than a house really. Geralt slipped off Roach’s back and pulled the crumpled witcher’s contract out of his pouch. Meet the innkeep at the Screaming Possum. Geralt chuckled a bit as he glanced up at the hand painted sign, showing a pink faced marsupial with needle-like teeth bared. 

“Oi mistar, you a witcha’?” a dirty faced girl with rough, knife-chopped hair stopped to gawk up at Geralt. “On accounta them two swords?” 

Geralt turned to her and froze when she gasped at his cat-like eyes, then relaxed at her smile. He slipped an oren out of his pouch, flipping it to the girl. “Yeah, kid. Bring some grain for my horse, huh?” She scurried off, wide eyed and clutching the coin. 

The inn smelled like sour beer and warm smoke, a heavenly aroma after a long day of riding. Rattling up to the bar, Geralt unclipped his shoulder holster and let his swords slip to his hands, then down to a rough-cut bench. “Rye and a bowl of something hot” he grumbled, “are you Landris?” 

“Aye, that’s me. Here about the beast, then?” The skinny young man behind the counter eyed him with a mixture of optimism and mistrust as he bent to pour from the keg of rye. 

Geralt grunted his affirmation. “Need to talk about the reward.” 

“L-look sir, I’m only a barkeep. I know the elders’re offering 600 orens, but I’m not in charge of nufing.” He held out the beer, “Tanrea is the one you need. Big ‘ouse down the road. Yellow one. Alright? Gotta get your dinner.” He was obviously trying to escape, so Geralt nodded and let him slip back to the kitchen. 

Settling down onto the bench with his rye, he took a long gulp and thought about the hunt ahead. A chort fiend. What a bitch that would be. But his purse was getting light, and he had to eat. The inn was rather busy, he noticed. Four absolutely filthy men, farmers he had to assume, shared a raucous game of gwent to his left. In front, a merchant sat next to his massive pack, sponging the last drops of stew out of his bowl with a crust of bread. Two crones cackled over frothy mugs of ale and half-knit sweaters. And in the corner, shadowed in the smoky darkness that normal human eyes would not have been able to penetrate, was a sorcerer. 

Geralt was astounded to see a sorcerer in Temeria. Geralt was astounded to see a new magic user at all. After the persecution of sorceresses and elves during the war, he hadn’t seen a new mage courageous enough to show their face east of Oxenfurt. And of the ones that remained, there was scarcely a bridge Geralt had left unburned. He sighed. The road had never seemed as lonely as in these months after Vesemir’s death.

“Your dinner. You gwine to bed here tonight?” Landris slid a bowl heaped with stewed chicken and cubes of roasted squash, topped with a crust of dark bread. The herbal steam bathed Geralt’s face. 

“Yes,” he replied, closing his eyes in satisfaction. He slid Landris the rest of the coin. 

“In the back. Come see me in the morning and I’ll have a roast potato to break your fast.” Landris smiled sweetly and shyly. Geralt chuckled and turned back to his steamy bowl of chicken.


	2. Moonlight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Forget lilac and gooseberries. How about gardenia and goat's milk soap?

Night had long since fallen over the Screaming Possum Inn when Geralt stretched out his lean frame, tossed back the last mouthfuls of his beer, and gathered his equipment to bed down for the night. Perhaps he stumbled a bit, but with his witcher reflexes he could catch himself quickly enough for no one to notice. Hopefully.

The back room was surprisingly large given the appearance of the inn, with four heavy wooden beds pushed against the walls. Geralt weaved over to the closest and heaved his saddle bag under the frame, placing his swords at the head. He plunked his bottom onto the bed and pulled off his boots, leaving them where they fell. His jerkin clattered on top of them. 

Rough woven blankets and a straw mattress were heavenly compared to the cold, hard ground of the previous week. Geralt closed his eyes and heaved a contented sigh, savoring the respite of the inn ahead of what was sure to be a difficult hunt. He drew in the comforting scent of the fire, of straw and horses, and… gardenia. And goat’s milk soap. 

Geralt’s eyes snapped open to see the sorcerer glide into the room. A thin shaft of moonlight sliced across his body. Geralt heard a slight intake of breath as he paused near his bed. Turning sharply toward the farthest bed under the window, the sorcerer tossed his pack to the foot of the bed and propped his carved staff against the frame. 

The sorcerer began to unbutton his robe. Tenderly, with a refined grace that comes from a lifetime of privilege and a familiar relationship with sartorial finery. When he gingerly slipped it down his arms, a burst of scent hit Geralt’s nose. The bitter ozone of magic, pungent sweat, and sweet new leather. Geralt thought of Yennefer, the awesome and mysterious power of magic, the crushing, twisting feeling of stepping through a portal, the heavy stacks of magic tomes with their indecipherable runes. It was good to see mages returning to Temeria. Perhaps this man was a trader in runes or scrolls. The villages ravaged by the war could certainly use all the wards and healing they could get. 

The mage crawled into bed, scratching his honey-brown belly lazily, then brushing back his oiled black hair as he yawned. Geralt forced himself to close his eyes. He’d need the sleep for the hunt tomorrow. 

\---

Beams of the first pale morning light rose up in the windows and Geralt creaked to his feet, knees popping, shoulders screaming, a fresh scar burning. The mage still slept, dark lips parted, gold earring glinting in the soft light. Geralt pressed his morningwood down with the heel of his hand and shrugged on his armor. Time to find Tanrea.

A spotted cat hissed as he walked into the front room of the inn, arching its back before it bolted away. Landris was stooped over the hearth, scraping ash out of the fireplace. He turned and wiped a black streak of soot across his face. 

“Good morning, master witcher. I have breakfast for you!” He gingerly reached into the still warm coals from last nights fire and pulled out a potato, dropping it onto the hem of his held-out tunic. 

“Um. Thanks.” Geralt grabbed his breakfast, unsure of what do do with it. He pocketed it and headed out the door, adjusting his shoulder holster as the cat gave a farewell screech from under the bar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still angry about the time I was level 4 in Witcher 3 and unable to afford a baked potato.
> 
> Sharing a bed in a hotel setting inspired by Moby Dick.
> 
> Lilac and gooseberries is the name of a Witcher 3 quest to find the sorceress Yennefer, Geralt's lover. What do gooseberries even smell like.


	3. Headbutt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt and Dorian and a chort fiend.

Tanrea had an impressive heap of braids atop her head, and stepped into her doorway with a massive striped blanket piled around her shoulders. Her long skirts were a rich madder red. Geralt managed to talk her up to 635 orens and some repair work to his armor. “Go with the blessing of Melitele,” she offered, eyes tired and sad.

Dry weather for the past week made the trek down to the ruined tower an easy one. Not surprising the price had been so high for this devil, Geralt thought, given its proximity to the village center. Remarkable it hadn’t killed more people, just a young couple who chose the wrong part of the wood for their rendezvous. And quite a lot of sheep. Barely a mile from the Screaming Possum Geralt noticed the first broken building stone along the footpath. He slowed his pace and carefully searched the brush for any signs of the chort. 

A tuft of black hair caught his eye, snagged by a tree branch. He sniffed it and immediately recognized the earthy, mushroom-like odor of chort, undercut by the faint tang of blood. Crouching low, he followed the scent trail up a slight incline. More scattered stones let him know he was approaching the ruin. A wet snuffling reached his ears, and he parted the branches to see a high stone wall, crumbling near the top. The fiend surely stood behind the ruin, devouring whatever gruesome meal it had dragged there. 

Geralt quickly downed a decoction and oiled his silver sword. Shifting from one foot to the other, he formulated a plan of attack. If he could surprise the beast from behind, perhaps he could cripple one of its legs before it had the chance to attack. He grit his teeth, huffed out a quick breath from his nose, and stepped out into the battle. 

As his silver plunged through the thick muscle of the chort’s rear leg, it snapped its massive head around and _screamed_. In an instant its thick, curled horns connected with Geralt’s torso like a great boulder fired from a catapult. Though his breath was completely crushed out of him, instinct allowed him to roll out of the way of its knife-sharp hooves as they furiously trampled the ground. 

He had taken quite the hit for it, but Geralt could see that the beast’s rear leg was dragging behind it, spurting black blood. Brambles tore at his face as he rolled to safety. Struggling to his feet, he ripped the cork out of a swallow potion. Blood rushed in his ears and the chort charged again, slowed this time by its useless leg. Geralt danced to the side, spun and swung his blade. It connected with the broad back of the fiend, but was deflected by thick fur and skin. Sparks flew from Geralt’s off hand as he threw out the igni sign, spurting flame into the chort’s three enraged eyes. But the fire obscured Geralt’s vision as well, so he didn’t see the sharp hoof swing around and slice across his chest, destroying the studded leather and crushing a rondel. 

Fuck. He stumbled back, certain that at least one rib was broken, dizzy for a moment as blood stained the jerkin red. 

“Kafthrane toyarh!” A shout rang out across the ruin and a sizzling bolt of deep purple-black energy exploded across the chort’s flank. It staggered and dropped down to a knee, unbalanced. Geralt took the opportunity to collect himself and, grasping his silver blade in two hands, drove it deep into the neck of the monster. With a sickening pop, the beast went still.

Panting and still leaning on his sword, Geralt looked up to meet the liquid black, kohl-lined eyes of the sorcerer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Madder is a plant that can be used to dye fabrics a unique shade of red. Also, I don't think spells have a verbal component in Dragon Age but I made up some nonsense magic words for dramatic effect.
> 
> A rondel is a little medallion on armor that covers your armpit. Common on medium chest armor in Witcher 3.


	4. Soft First Touches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The tender tingly touch of a healing spell.

“ _Unbelievable_. I come all the way to this gods-forsaken backwater for a legendary demon, and when I arrive it’s already been dispatched like a rabbit for tonight’s stew.” The mage strode across the clearing, the stone set into his staff still glowing faintly with arcane energy. 

“Not quite like that.” Geralt grunted as he yanked his sword out of the oozing neck of the chort. He placed a tentative hand to the gash in his chest and sucked in a quick breath through the teeth. Not terribly deep, but it stung like a bitch.

“No matter, it seems you’ve actually done me a favor. I imagine the beast’s liver will be rather easier to collect, this way,” he gestured to the splayed corpse. 

“Some potion you’re brewing, I suppose?” Geralt fumbled for a healing potion with one hand while applying pressure to his chest with the other. 

“Indeed. A rather spectacular bit of magic, actually. You see I’ve been -” he looked up from where he had been poking the chort’s belly with the end of his staff and his eyes flicked to Geralt’s bloodstained armor. “How rude of me, let me help you. Its the least I can do for your quite fortuitous assistance.” He stepped toward Geralt and reached out a hand, already buzzing with blue energy. 

“Hold on. What’re you doing?” Geralt had quite enough experience with sorceresses to be wary of the side effects of magic, especially when offered so confidently. 

“Just minor healing, don’t be concerned. I can close that wound and relieve the pain. Unless you’d rather drag yourself back to the village gushing blood.” His hand stilled above Geralt’s heart. 

“Its not _gushing_.” Geralt wavered a moment. If the man had any ill intentions, he could have much more easily acted on them while Geralt was sleeping in the inn last night (not that he wouldn’t have been greeted by a dagger at his throat, but he could have tried) rather than standing with a sword in his hand. “Fine. Do it.” He braced himself for the spell. 

A tingling wave spread across his torso as the mysterious mage placed his long fingers on Geralt’s body. He could feel hot breath on his neck and hear the mumbled words of the spell. The mage’s eyes were closed in concentration, and Geralt took the opportunity to study his features. He had a sharp, intelligent face with full dark lips and long black lashes accented by the kohl. His rich yellow robe left one muscular shoulder exposed, and Geralt traced the line of his collarbone down to his bicep, one blue vein throbbing slightly on his inner arm. If he listened, he could hear the heart that beat in time to that throbbing. Ba-dum. Ba-dum. 

“How does that feel now?” The man asked, stepping away. 

Geralt started, brought back suddenly from his daydream. He felt great, still tingling slightly and full of a burst of energy. “Good, actually. I’m not used to magic like that.”

“Ha. I should presume not. Your mages here seem to offer little more than herbs and hope.” He cocked his plucked brow and twisted the end of his black mustache. “I’m Dorian. Of the house of Pavus, though I imagine that means little to you.”

“Geralt.”

“Pleased to meet you, Geralt, valiant monster hunter.”

“Witcher, actually.”

“A witcher? I’ve heard tales of such a mythical creature around this land.” He leaned forward. “ _Oh_ , and the eyes…” 

“Yeah.” Geralt scratched his rough cheek with a gloved hand. “Now I suppose I might as well butcher this thing for you, too.”

“I assure you, no such thought had crossed my mind. But as long as you offer so gallantly.” He pulled a large waxed canvas pouch out of his pack. “For the… specimen.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of the Witcher 3 DLC's is called "Evil's Soft First Touches" so the chapter title is a play off that.


	5. Severed Head

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Somewhat gross chapter about Geralt collecting his trophy.

Geralt took out his serrated dagger and knelt next to the chort. With a sigh and a hopeful wish that there was a stream nearby, he set to work cutting off the fiend’s head. Dorian stood well away looking like he was fighting the urge to gag as Geralt sawed and crunched his way through the hard sinews and thick muscle of the chort’s neck. Thankfully his sword had already severed the spine, so with a few rough chops to the last of the cartilage holding it together, the head flopped free. Geralt grasped it by its thick, curled rams horn and set it on the stump so the last of the dark blood could drain free as he set to work on the belly. 

Geralt made a quick slash across the exposed skin of the chort’s belly and stepped back as a steaming pile of guts slithered out of the carcass. 

“ _Vishante kaffas_ , the smell” Dorian gagged out and firmly clamped his hand over his nose and mouth. Geralt couldn’t disagree, it was foul. 

“Just the liver you want?” He asked. Why was he going to all this trouble for some stranger? At least it looked like he’d get some help hauling the head back to the village. The thing looked like it weighed 50 pounds.

“Yes. Maker, I doubt we could carry anything else. Do you really need the entire head?”

“What do you think ‘a price on its head’ means?” Geralt smiled wolfishly and scooped the burning hot liver into the sack, ripping off a last strand of connective tissue. 

“How very literal.”

“Here.” Geralt held the liver out and turned to wipe his gloves and sword on the long grass. He could hear something in the distance, probably wild dogs coming to investigate the sounds and smells of the fight. “Let’s get out of here.” 

\---

There weren’t any streams near the village, but as they approached the first cluster of huts, Geralt noticed a squat stone well. 

“Let’s stop here.” 

“Thank the maker.” Dorian panted, and dropped his side of the trophy where they stood. The chort’s dead eyes looked up reproachingly, and its pale tongue hung out of its bloody mouth. 

Geralt grunted as the smelly prize fell on his leather boot. He released his grasp on the smooth, nubbly, curved horn he was gripping and let the chort's head rest on the gravel and dirt road. Pulling his foot out, he headed to the well where he drew a bucket of water. He splashed the icy cold water over his hands and bloodied jerkin, gasping at the startling chill. Geralt pulled out his silver sword and began to clean it properly, finishing with oil to keep it sharp.

When he turned back, he burst out with a deep and hearty belly-laugh. Dorian was perched on the chort’s massive head like a throne, his arms resting on the horns, legs crossed daintily, looking at him with a cocked brow. When Geralt began to laugh, he lost his composure and joined in, smile crinkling the corners of his dark, twinkling eyes. 

“Comfortable?” Geralt chuckled.

“Not as comfortable as I’ll be with an ale in my hand. Come on, Geralt, let’s get your bounty so you can buy me a drink.” Dorian’s smile gleamed in the setting sunlight.


	6. Arm Wrestling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The village shepherds celebrate the killing of the chort. Geralt challenges Dorian to arm wrestle.

The musky, oily smell of sheep enveloped Geralt as he pushed open the heavy wooden door of the tavern. A burst of raucous laughter came from the crew of shepherds filling the room, and the a cheer went up.

“ _The witcher!_ ” They shouted, red-faced and joyful. Geralt took a step back and contemplated reaching for his steel before a sloshing tankard was shoved in his hand. “The savior of our sheep!” they cheered. 

“That's right, boys,” Geralt growled low, finally understanding the nature of the celebration. “Fiend's dead. Your sheep will be safe now.” He took a sip of the rye, shouldering his way through the small crowd and into the tavern. “And don't forget my valiant companion. Never could have defeated the beast without him.” 

Another cheer went up and Dorian was clapped on the back by a dozen grimy hands. His face twisted into a smile, filled with amused disgust. 

The evening passed in a blur of frothy beer and smiling shepherds. Dorian regaled the assembled horde with an outlandishly embellished tale of their battle against the chort, and even passed the bag full of black liver around for everyone to gawk and sniff and gag at. One pretty young shepherdess sat particularly close to Dorian, Geralt noticed, raptly listening to his magical tales and blushing sweetly with the excitement of the story and the warmth of drunkenness.

With the crush of the shepherds in the small tavern, the benches were packed with raucous, smelly bodies. Geralt returned from refilling his tankard, and generously tipping the flustered Landris, to find that the only empty seat was one squeezed close to Dorian. 

Geralt noticed Dorian's eyes flick quickly sideways as he approached, and then back down to the game of gwent he was being taught by a burly, black haired shepherd. Geralt felt the sizzling warmth of his body as they pressed in close. Did he imagine it, or was that muscular thigh pressing into his more than strictly necessary in such close quarters? 

A shepherdess with pumpkin-orange hair stood shakily on a bench in the back of the tavern, righted herself with a quick tug on her brown wool jersey, and began to enthusiastically belt out a song. The group erupted with a rowdy clapping of hands and stomping of feet at the rather lewd drinking song.

No, it wasn't Geralt's imagination, there was a muscled thigh pressing into his. And the rest of a warm body. Shiny new leather rubbed against the padded canvas of Geralt's light armor. The smell of gardenia and soap reached his nose in the close quarters. 

Geralt smirked to himself, growling quietly into his tankard and languidly scratching the patchy stubble on his neck. It was a rare day he came back from fulfilling a contract without something broken to take care of or a village of arseholes eager to kick him out after he'd done their dirty work, even rarer to have a warm bed to sleep in, and nigh unheard of to have an even warmer body cuddling up to him and honking with laughter at the impromptu arm wrestling match at the next table.

_“Don’t overthink it. Surrender to spontaneous honesty – there’s nothing more beautiful in human relationships.”_ The words of Gaunter O’Dimm (that fiendish bastard) echoed in his head. 

Fuck it. 

“Let’s go, you’n me.” Geralt slurred. He propped up his right arm in arm-wrestling position.

Dorian’s brow furrowed and his right eye squeezed shut as he spun around, trying to stay upright. 

“Hoh, a terrible mistake, my friend.” Dorian held his hand out and wriggled his long fingers. 

Geralt grasped the smooth hand, turning towards Dorian. The rough pink callouses of his palms scratched against the caramel brown skin. A jolt of electricity shot straight to his cock. Geralt growled and flexed his bicep, muscle stretching the short linen sleeve of his undershirt. 

Dorian’s eyes looked straight into Geralt’s as he tensed his body, stomach tight and sharp shoulder jutting out from his robe. The muscles in his neck strained, throbbing pulse point highlighted by an enlarged blue vein. Black eyes reflected the fire in the grate and the noise of the tavern faded away. Dorian began in earnest to push Geralt’s arm down, inch by inch.

Geralt huffed out a breath, drunken flush rising higher in his pale face. A strand of damp silver hair fell across his golden-yellow eyes, slitted pupils blown wide by the dark of the tavern and the hot stretching ache in his trousers. 

Dorian slotted his rock hard thigh between Geralt’s legs, knee barely brushing his balls. Geralt scooted forward on the bench, yellow eyes on black. Geralt trapped Dorian’s leg between his own, squeezing down. Still Geralt’s hand inched further down to the table. Dorian huffed with exertion, thick chest expanding with the effort. A tiny bubble of beer foam clung to his mustache. 

With a clatter of plates and tankards, Geralt’s hard knuckles hit the rough wood of the table. Huffing and puffing, he clung on to the soft hand and the dark eyes for a moment longer.


	7. Black Silk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian's silky underthings are canon, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _“All at once we were madly, clumsily, shamelessly, agonizingly in love with each other; hopelessly, I should add, because that frenzy of mutual possession might have been assuaged only by our actually imbibing and assimilating every particle of each other's soul and flesh”_ Nabokov, Lolita p13

The party was finally winding down as the moon made its way back down to the treetops. Shepherds lay slumped near the hearth and snoring. Landris had long since given up on the celebration and climbed up the stairs to his attic room.

And still Geralt and Dorian sat in the main room of the tavern. Unspoken drunken caresses aside, they circled around each other, unsure as teenagers. Geralt hadn’t felt this way since he was a youth at Kaer Morhen, fumbling in the soft grass by the lake with Eskel. The surprising texture of someone else’s tongue in your mouth. The painful hyper-reality of those first too-honest touches.

Dorian tossed back his ale and stood, avoiding Geralt’s eye. His expression was pained, dark, lost in his memories just as Geralt was. Slowly, with careful steadiness, he prowled into the back room. Geralt watched him until he disappeared with a swish of his robe. He stood, and, after fiddling with his wolf medallion for a moment, followed. 

Dorian stood in the center of the room, looking out to the fading moonlight. His head turned sharply as Geralt entered, as if surprised.

Geralt stepped forward with one long, lunging step. He was just a breath away from those lips, that long neck, that broad chest, the crackling aura of magic and desire. 

Dorian’s strong arm reached out and, gingerly testing, wrapped around Geralt’s narrow waist. His eyes flicked up to Geralt’s eyes. He tipped his head back, ever so slightly - he was only inch or two shorter than Geralt - exposing his throat and adam’s apple. It bobbed as he swallowed down a nervous breath. Dorian’s arm, with the tree-like strength he had demonstrated earlier in the night, enveloped Geralt and drew him impossibly close to the radiating heat of his body. 

“I’m afraid you have another fiend to face, witcher.” Dorian sneered, and brought their lips together. 

Geralt growled, low and gravely in his throat, and bent to press his hard mouth against Dorian’s impossibly soft one. His arms came around to encircle Dorian around the small of his back, hips cocked forward to press them even closer together.

Dorian pulled his mouth away and trailed wet lips down to the gray-white scruff on Geralt’s neck and chin. Hot breath raised goosebumps on his pale white flesh. Geralt pressed their chests closer together and huffed out a long breath. 

Yellow fabric rustled to the floor and Geralt was treated to the full expanse of Dorian’s broad chest. The dark nipples on his curvaceous pecs were hard and pebbly. The barest dusting of soft black hair nestled in the middle of his chest and in a line under his belly button disappearing into his soft trousers. Manicured fingernails fumbled with the button, and these too fell to the floor, followed by a pair of kicked-off leather shoes. 

Melitele’s cunt, did he actually steal those underthings from Yennefer? 

Black silk panties, trimmed in hand-woven black lace that depicted running harts, shimmered in the fading moonlight. Dorian’s chestnut brown cockhead, blushed with purplish-red, strained out of the left leg hole.

Rough jerkin, undershirt and trousers were unceremoniously shucked off, until Geralt was left in his tan linen shorts, wet stain seeping out onto the strained seam over his hard cock. 

“Oh... Geralt...” Dorian’s eyes turned sorrowful, lust momentarily forgotten, as he ghosted his fingertips over one of the many thick, pink, gruesome scars and gashes furrowing Geralt’s deathly pale skin. 

“S’fine. Forget it.” The witcher petulantly brushed off Dorian’s hand. He stepped back until the back of his knees hit one of the beds, and dropped onto the straw mattress. Setting his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands, he groaned. Maybe this was a bad idea.

“Apologies. I didn’t mean to bring up any bad memories.” Dorian sat next to him on the bed, looking down at his hands.

“Could you… that spell you did before. There’s one that -” Geralt reached around to point to a bright red slash across his kidney. A black and yellow bruise congealed around the fresh scar. 

“You’d like me to heal this? Of course. Of course… Um… Perhaps if you laid here on your stomach?” Dorian fluttered his hands nervously.

Geralt did as he was told, wriggling a bit as the scratchy mattress dug into his still aching cock. Dorian straddled his waist and sat his round, silky bottom on Geralt’s thighs. An involuntary moan, low and masculine, melted out of Geralt’s throat as he felt soft shaved balls and a burning cock resting against his thighs and ass. Without looking back, he could sense Dorian's pompous grin. 

Blue light glowed through his closed eyelids and the now familiar tingling sensation suffused his body, causing him to unclench muscles he hadn’t known were tense. Broad, muscular shoulders relaxed, followed by his narrow back and abdominal muscles, and finally the thighs that were gently cupping Dorian’s silky balls. _Fuck_ , that felt good. 

Tingling pleasure radiated up from the scar that was rapidly knitting back together as Dorian’s hand drifted down to the narrowest part of his waist, up his ribs, across his blunt shoulders, and up his neck. Warm fingers caressed the nape of his neck and brushed the shaved sides of his head, then rolled his pale pink earlobe gently. Blue light glowed all around his body. The hands drifted back down to his ribs and around his chest, gently pressing in between Geralt’s body and the bed. Geralt lifted his hips slightly to allow them to press along the sides of his belly, his hips, his thighs. The tingling sensation spread to his asshole and balls when Dorian’s hands slid up to squeeze his ass. 

“Unh. Dammit, don’t stop.” His entire back was buzzing with energy. Gods, he hoped this didn’t have side effects he’d start to regret. Geralt twisted his upper body around and Dorian let him up enough to turn onto his back. Large white hands reached out to grasp the hips in the black silk panties and scrape them roughly across his lap. Grunting, their achingly hard erections ground together. Dorian arched his back and planted his blue-glowing hands against Geralt’s chest. Geralt reached up to cup the hard, flexing muscles of Dorian’s tits. Healing was still spreading across his body, the euphoric feeling of the spell emptying his mind of any thought save the sensation of Dorian.


	8. Pop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt sucks Dorian's dick.

Dorian was huffing gently, trying desperately to concentrate on the healing spell that flowed from his fingers as Geralt rolled his nipples under rough pale fingers. With a surprisingly loud pop, Dorian felt the witcher’s shoulder snap into place.

“ _Oohhh, fuck_. That’s perfect.” Geralt blissfully growled, arching his back up. Dorian let the healing spell sputter out. 

“Your shoulder was dislocated this entire time??” Dorian pulled his hands back, incredulous. The blue light faded. Geralt shrugged slightly, rolling his healed shoulder as he did. 

“Guess so. Well, probably not all the way. Damn, that feels good.” He arched off the bed and pulled Dorian down for another kiss, biting on his bottom lip and sucking it wetly. His lips were still parted as he pulled away and flopped back down to the bed. “Come here.” 

The witcher worked black silk down around Dorian’s tensed ass and over the head of his petite cock, then grasped two handfuls of that bottom and urged his hips forward. Dorian shuffled on his knees, dick bobbing up to those glistening lips. He brushed his fever-hot cockhead along the witcher’s silvery beard before caressing his thin, pale lips. 

Leaning over the head of the bed to rest his palms on the wall behind, the mage maneuvered his cock down Geralt’s waiting throat. A strangled gag made him pull his hips back gently. Blazing cat eyes glared back up at him as he moaned into the wet heat. Geralt sucked down Dorian’s cock and massaged his thighs and ass with broad hands. His pink tongue stroked the narrow, curved shaft and oozed out a thin line of drool between stretched lips. He gripped the wings of Dorian’s pelvis hard, thumbs digging into the soft flesh. 

One of the mage’s hands came down from the wall and pushed roughly into Geralt’s white hair. The smell of sweat began to permeate the small room. Suddenly the witcher pushed Dorian’s hips back sharply and swung his feet back down to the floor. Crouching down after quickly shucking his shorts off, he rummaged through his pack. The mage, still on his knees, watched appreciatively as Geralt’s ass and thighs clenched and unclenched. 

He stood up, thick uncut cock flushed pale pink and leaking pearls of precome down the shaft. His thighs and ass were covered in a dusting of dark gray hair. Bare feet patted softly on the cold floorboards. Geralt leaned predatorily over Dorian, one knee on the bed between his legs, making him sit back on his heels and place his hands behind him. 

“Can I fuck you,” his voice ground out with a dark lust that made Dorian feel weak. 

“ _Fuck me, witcher_ ,” the mage breathed out, using a hand on the back of Geralt’s neck to pull his face down into the throbbing pulse point above his clavicle. Geralt uncorked the bottle of oil he had retrieved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on a true story about my shoulder.


	9. Full Nelson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt pins Dorian to the mat.

Dorian’s thighs were quivering the tiniest amount. Geralt thought a normal human might not be able to percieve the expectant trembling, but his witcher senses saw it, and heard the racing heart, the quickened huffs of breath Dorian was trying to keep suppressed.

The witcher dumped a handful of alchemical oil onto the thickened skin of his palm. With a wet smack, he squished it against Dorian’s shaved asshole. The mage was on his elbows and knees on the narrow bed, slowly stroking his cock and resting his forehead against the mattress. His black hair was beautifully tousled, oiled locks curling over his pierced ears and the nape of his neck. Geralt rubbed him with his thumb until he felt him relax, then slowly pressed his thumb inside.

“Hhaaa..” Dorian let out the rough breath he’d been holding in. 

Gently fucking the mage with his fingers was making Geralt’s cock achingly hard, foreskin stretched tight, leaking and hot. He pulled his thumb out and pressed it along the bridge of skin between Dorian’s asshole and tight balls. He saw the mage squeeze down on the base of his dick, knuckles pale. Feeling buoyed by the warm embrace of beer and his fantastic luck at having such a view of this beautiful, powerful sorcerer, Geralt felt supremely confident. This man deserved his very best effort.

With a drunken lurch, Geralt’s face plopped onto Dorian’s ass. Gripping both smooth cheeks in his large, scarred hands, the witcher wriggled his tongue into Dorian’s asshole. Thick, muscular thighs tensed around his face, brushing his wiry beard as the mage shoved his ass back into Geralt’s sloppy mouth. 

“Unhh, mm… Come on Geralt.” Dorian grunted out, a drop of spit and oil glistening as it slid slowly down his balls. 

Hearing his name on those lips, in that smooth deep voice, hit the witcher like a punch in the gut. His ragged fingernails dug into Dorian’s thighs, leaving pink semicircles on his copper skin.

Knees feeling better than they had in years, Geralt shifted up on them and squeezed his shaft in one hand, pressing the blood-pink head to Dorian’s asshole.

Dorian groaned into the tiny slippery pop of Geralt’s cockhead pushing past the tight ring of muscle. He rested the top of his head against the mattress for a moment, panting. Gleaming sweat appeared against the muscles of his back and shoulders. 

Geralt arched his head up, exposing the long line of his pale neck to the cool night air. Wet, tight, soft heat enveloped him in a rush of pleasure that seeped town to his toes. Suddenly Dorian was pushing back, muscles taught as he swallowed up the witcher’s length. Geralt fell over him, his flat chest wrapping the mage’s sweat-dampened back in a powerful embrace. Pale arms looped under Dorian’s as Geralt grabbed him firmly behind the neck and thrust fully inside.

With his thick beard brushing Dorian’s neck, Geralt pressed his lips to the sorcerer’s ear. “You feel so fucking good. Wanna make you scream.” Biceps flexed as he pulled Dorian into rough thrusts, letting out hard guttural noises that were a mixture of grunt and growl. 

Slack jawed with half-lidded eyes fluttering, Dorian shoved his ass back into Geralt’s rhythmic thrusts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit: Its probably dangerous to put people into submission holds during sex so... be careful out there.
> 
> Alternate sex dialogue for Geralt, "How do you like that silver?"


	10. Loud

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stanky fucking. 1 wank = 1 kudos

Geralt straightened his body out, his hands slowly caressing Dorian’s neck. Then came to rest with one supporting Dorian’s heaving, sweating chest, and the other gently but firmly grasping his throat. Dorian tipped his head back, lips glistening and parted as he moaned from deep in his throat.

Geralt’s whole body felt warm, contented, and still a bit tingly from the healing spell. He rolled his hips into Dorian, his eyes drawn from the upturned ass with its red and needy hole, down the line of his glistening brown back, to the baby soft hairs on the nape of his neck. The mage’s shoulders rippled with the effort of holding himself up against Geralt’s slow, strong pounding with one hand and pressing softly into his balls with the other. A halting, guttural moan escaped his lips and he bit into his clenched fist to muffle the noise. 

In response Geralt let out a roar and heaved Dorian’s body against the slam of his hips. The puff of noise Dorian let out was half moan, half getting the wind knocked out of his lungs. The rustic bedframe slammed into the wall, joints cracking, legs scraping along the floor. 

“Be as loud as you want!! We could slaughter this entire town between us!! Ha!! Huunh… His breathy laugh turned into groans of pleasure. 

The mage pushed back against him roughly and pulled off of Geralt’s throbbing cock. Pale blue veins bulged out along the swollen length that glistened wet in the moonlight. He turned around and pushed the witcher’s shoulders down until his bottom hit the bed. A damp lock of black hair flopped over his creased forehead. He climbed on top of the witcher’s lap, grinning wickedly. 

“I can’t believe I met a man like you in this swamp,” Dorian laughed, out of breath. He rose up on his knees and reached his arm backwards to grasp Geralt’s dick, “completely cocky.”

Dorian’s mouth caressed Geralt’s as his ass sank down onto Geralt’s fat cock, enveloping him in hot squishy pleasure. He tenderly rolled his hips and sucked on Geralt’s tongue, tasting bitter potions, and beer, and ass. Geralt wrapped his arms around Dorian’s waist, rocking them together. Dorian’s dick smeared precome up and down the witcher’s belly. He spread his fingers out and massaged the witcher’s tense back, fingering the knotted mountains and valleys of scar tissue. Dorian wondered; what beast’s claws and fangs had sunk into the flesh here as the monster hunter clung to life, alone in the wilderness, locked in mortal struggle? What deep well of ferocity had he drawn from to emerge victorious, to stay alive in the merciless world of devils to which he belonged?

Dorian ruthlessly slammed into Geralt, licking into his mouth and melting into the sinewy, tangled body of the white wolf. His little curved cock was slithering between their bellies, pounding with the hot blood that filled it. He let out a howling moan of pleasure that echoed around the dark chamber. Geralt followed, grinning and raising his voice even louder. The mage brought his hands up to cup Geralt’s chin, wriggling his fingers through the furry white beard.

Hips rolled ceaselessly, the two bodies entwined and melting together in drunken ecstasy. Geralt reached between their bellies, humming softly in his throat, and grasped Dorian’s shaft, brushing his purple cockhead with his thumb. Dorian brought his arms up and around the witcher’s neck as his hips jerked out of rhythm. 

Losing control, the witcher pulled Dorian’s cock roughly, enveloping the petite length with one strong hand as his other smashed Dorian’s hip down onto his bursting cock. He came with a full-throated, breathy groan, a powerful, vulnerable sound that vibrated into the mage’s belly. 

Wrapping around Geralt’s stilled hand, Dorian used their hands together in rapid strokes. Hot come splattered across the witcher’s belly, rising and falling in time with his panted breaths. 

“Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh,” was all the mage could whisper out. His head slumped forward to rest against Geralt’s. Sweat slicked, semen covered, filling the room with the stench of balls, ass, and armpits, they held each other for a moment as their breath slowed. 

Slowly pushing Dorian off of his softening cock, Geralt reached for his discarded shorts to wipe himself off. Come oozed out of Dorian in a ticklish trickle.

“C’mere and cuddle,” Geralt sleepily commanded, eyelids already drooping over glowing gold eyes. Dorian was happy to oblige.


End file.
